Warning: Dark themes, death, violence, and gratuitous gun fetishizing.
Trapped. I'm trapped.
It takes me a moment to realize that it's merely my sheets binding my legs. My heart, pounding so fast it feels like it's breaking my ribs, slows with this realization, as does my breathing. Calm down, I tell myself, closing my eyes. Calm down, stay sane. It's over. She's gone. He's gone. It's been six months. You're safe.
I can feel my lips twist into a sneer.
No, I'm not safe.
Arkham may be gone for now, but he'll be back. When he killed my mom, he got what he was looking for: power. I know Arkham though. I caught him during a lapse once, and he rambled onto me about power and ruling humans. He talked about demons, mumbled about Sparda. I listened with half an ear. I caught one thing though: his desire for power. My mother's death may have given him more than he had before, but I know he will come for more. When he does, he'll be gunning for me.
It takes a couple minutes for me to untangle myself from my sheets. They're a darker blue, drenched with my sweat. I swear as I lower my nose to the fabric, taking note that I need to do laundry. It'll have to happen later though; I have to restock my bullet supply. There are simply not enough quarters to go around.
I shiver as my toes touch the floor. I switch on the lamp beside my cot and take in my bleary surroundings. Same as I left them last night; sparsely furnished, almost Spartan, and small. It's a cheap apartment on the bad side of town; the neighbors keep me up with their loud, drunken orgies and in chance, they turn a blind eye to my comings and goings at all times of night and the gunshots that ring out on a daily basis. I grab a gun, my precious Oblivion, a CZ75 that shoots .40 S&Ws and start to go about my morning routine.
I check my phone first. It's a small thing, a black like flip phone I use for business and business alone. Not that I have enough of a personal life to necessitate a separate phone.
A small smirk spreads across my lips as I see a new message. It's from a regular client of mine; a rather rich politician with lots of dirty laundry. He's goes to me when he needs his enemies dead; I'm a hit man – girl – after all. He's propositioned me a couple times; I've always shot him down, and literally threatened to shoot him if he tried to again.
Meet you at the Royal, eight sharp, it reads. I flip the phone close and toss it back on to the counter, making my way to the bathroom.
The room is bathed in a yellow glow as I flip on the lights. The bathroom is just as small and Spartan as the rest my apartment, a tub on the far end with a shower hose, a toilet and a sink squished against the west wall.
I toss Oblivion and my clothing into laundry basket I have set up across from the toilet and turn on the shower, turning back to the mirror above the sink. A large spidery crack runs across the cool surface of the mirror. I shot the mirror once while drunk. I'm going to guess that Alder – the no-good politician I have a meeting with later – ordered a harder drink for me than I'd thought. It doesn't help I can't handle my alcohol, too young I suppose.
I hate looking in mirrors. Looking at myself, I see him. I have his eyes, like really have them. He had heterochromia and he passed it onto me. I suppose my eyes make look exotic, one red and one blue, but I hate them. I hate him. But like I hate looking at my targets after their down, I can't help myself. I found myself staring at them in curiosity as they're reflected back at me.
I turn away. I'm almost feel like picking up Oblivion and putting another bullet hole in the mirror, but I resist. If I did that, I'd empty the clip into the mirror and have to buy another mirror with money I should be spending on bullets. So I ignore the urge, and my twitching fingers, and take my shower.
I dress in my usual attire after my shower. It's an old school uniform I grabbed before leaving home. It's a little short in the bust area, but the rest still fits. I suppose I should get some more clothing, looking like a catholic schoolgirl in my line of business usually ends with people laughing at me. No one takes me seriously with the plaid skirt and button down shirt, but it makes it all too easy to get my targets.
Glancing at the clock, I curse again. I've got an hour before I need to be at the Royal, and the Royal is halfway across town. I don't have a vehicle of my own, too young and too expensive, and with my luck, the bus will be late.
I strap Oblivion to my inner right thigh. I grab a Browning Model 1910, Dominion, and strap it to my left ankle. I grab Requiem and Rapture, two Colt MEUs, and slip them in to the holster under my shirt. I glance at the rest of my guns and decide that this will be all I need. I'm probably packing more heat than the guards at the casino will be as it is. Still, I make sure to grab extra ammo which I conceal in a utility belt I strap around my waist.
Time to go.
Some of my neighbors are lingering in the hallway, cigarettes against their lips as they whisper in raspy tones. They take one look at me though and slip back into their homes. Everyone knows to stay away from me. Half of them know what I do for a living, half of them only know it's not good. When you see a fifteen year old living in a shithole place like this, packing the heat that I do, you know to turn tail and flee. Hell is all that awaits you otherwise.
A man whistles at me. I pull out Rapture and let out a warning shot. My ear twitches as the bang sounds next to my ear, but I grin in satisfaction when I hear a girlish squeal come from the direction of the man. Must be a new neighbor. I trust I've made my impression.
I'm not a people person. We don't get along. There is a silent agreement between me and everyone who crosses my path: get close and I'll put a bullet through your head. It's who I am. That may be terrifying, I suppose a younger version of myself would scream and cry if she knew I was who she'd turn out to be, but it's me. I don't have time for people; my patience is pretty thin. Even I wanted to get close to someone, they'd be dead, even if it wasn't by my bullet.
I suppose that's why I name my guns. People have asked in the past what they mean, and I just shrug my shoulders and change the subject. They don't mean anything, the names that it is. However, the fact I name them – I guess – means something. That I'm human, and I have human emotions, and one of those emotions is loneliness.
The bus is uneventful. People stare; they always stare. The bus driver took one look at me and didn't even bother asking for the fee. It's an upside to packing heat, the fear that is. They're scared you'll hold a gun to their head if they ask anything of you, so they you let slide. I don't pay for my apartment. I bet I could, but then my guns might go a little neglected.
Horatio isn't scared of me though, and I suppose Alder isn't either. Actually, Alder isn't scared of me, he's just an adrenaline junkie. That's why he messes with me, hits on me, even though I've held a gun to his crotch and threatened to neuter him. Horatio is more understandable. He owns my favorite store, a little whole in the wall that carries every type of gun, and every size of ammo you could need. He deals with guns and gun-crazies every day, he's used to them.
I approach the doors of the Royal. A couple of girls, donning slinky and short dresses linger around the entrance, trying to catch the attention of the entering men. I suppose I shouldn't judge, I find my income from rather abnormal means too, but I do judge them. They prey on the desires of men, use their bodies to get their money. At least I'm honest when I face a man; I want them dead. These girls pretend they want the man, when they really hate him.
The guard on duty nods to me. "Hey Boris," I whisper as I brush past him. I'm pretty familiar with the guards at the Royal. I'm here often enough that I've merely become a part of the scenery. A couple of them even have the balls to talk to me about guns. They find quickly that I know more than they could ever hope to.
I scan the crowds. It's loud in the Royal; people shouting at dice or cards as they gamble. Couple that with the angry chatter of unlucky bastards, and I have a frown on my face. I don't like the Royal, but it seems my best client does.
I spot him quickly. Alder is a man in his thirties with blond hair and green eyes. He stands out in a crowd with Armani suits and his generally arrogant demeanor. He is a career politician, what more could you expect? He's sitting at one of the tables, playing a round of poker, a grin on his lips. He must be winning. I'm certain he has it rigged. There's a woman standing over his shoulder, a red head in a skin-tight pink dress, watching his hand with a seductive smirk. Disgust racks me.
"Alder," I call as I make my way through the crowd. People part around me, hesitant frowns on their faces as they notice my arsenal. The green-eyed bastard glances up at me, turning the same smirk on me that the whore was wearing earlier. Now she's frowning. That makes me happy.
"You called me here for work," I bite out. "Not to gamble. Let's go."
He turns away from me, resting his chin on his hand, studying his cards. "Just a moment dear. Let me show these fools who they're dealing with first." He puts down the cards and takes a sip of his drink. A brandy likely, he told me he drinks brandy when he's winning.
It takes him a moment to realize I'm still standing, my arms crossed over my chest. He rolls his eyes, snapping his fingers. A server appears out of seemingly nowhere with a stool she places at his side before disappearing again. He pats the leather seat , turning a smile on me. The whore from earlier rolls her eyes before storming off. I clench my fist before taking the seat.
"Now I'm certain I'll win," Alder chuckles. "I've got my good luck charm." He wraps an arm around my shoulders as the rest of the man chuckle.
He pays you, he pays you, he pays you. It's a mantra I chant as my fingers twitch, yearning for Oblivion. He's breaking my rule of no touching, but I can't break his rule of no guns. If I do, people panic, and then it's another night spent on the run from the police. Can't have that. I need more bullets. So I let the arm remain as he continues playing his game, the mantra running through my head.
"Look Mary," he says, pulling me closer to him. "I've won."
"You don't have permission to call me that," I hiss. The men around us scoot back in their seats, suddenly realizing just how dangerous it might be with an angry gunslinger around. Alder doesn't seem to care though, smiling at me, showing off his pearly whites. My hands are itching for Oblivion again. Resist, I chant in mind, resist.
"We can talk about it in our room," he says. His tone is patronizing. Damn bastard.
I make a hasty retreat from the poker table. I pull Oblivion from its holster. Just the feel of the cool metal in my hand placates my violent urges. I suppose Alder's in luck tonight; I won't neuter him with a shot.
I don't know why I put up with him. I can tell myself it's because he pays me, and I suppose that's part of the reason, but that's not the other reason. I don't know that other reason; couldn't guess if my life depended on it. I just put up with him; his perverseness and his patronizing. Because he pays me is not enough of a reason to put up with him.
"Mary," he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I glare at him, but all that does it make his grin wider. With an arm around my shoulder, he leads me to his room.
I'm pretty certain he owns Room 316. It's always the room out meetings take place in. It's modernly furnished, a fully functional kitchen, a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom, a hi-definition flat-screen, and king-size mattress in the adjoining bedroom with 1000-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. I remember walking into the room for our first meeting and nearly dropping my jaw in amazement, wondering how on earth it was a hotel room. Being used to crappy motel rooms full of bedbugs and cigarette ashes, it was like stepping into wonderland that first time.
He unlocks the door and flips on the lights before shrugging out of his coat. I merely walk into the room and glance around, sweeping for threats. Alder, as annoying as he can be, wouldn't be stupid enough to try and take me down. Still, I can't help it. It's my instinct; survival, y'know?
After a quick visual check, I follow Alder to the kitchen. Once more he's breaking out the booze; whiskey, I note. He drinks whiskey when the conversation isn't going to be pleasant. I snort, wondering what journalist he pissed off this time, or what dirty secret one of his whores spilt. He offers me a glass; I turn it down.
"One less thing for the cops to pin on me," he mutters before taking a sip of his whiskey. He shudders before smiling at the amber liquid. "Sometimes I forget you're only fifteen. You carry yourself like a woman, you know that?"
How much has he had to drink?
"I'm not here for flattery." He shakes his head before taking another sip of his drink. "What piece of shit do you need me to take care of?"
"Calm down sweetheart," he says. My fingers twitch at my side. "You're too business-oriented." My fingers thrum along the counter. It's a silent warning. "And too violent," he mutters.
"I'm not here for a class in how to be a lady," I bite back. He rolls his eyes as he refills his glass.
"No, I suppose not."
He makes his way into the living room area of the suite. I follow him, my eyes narrowed as I watch him. He pulls a bulky black laptop out of a case and sets it up on the coffee table. As it boots up, he turns the TV on and mutes it, slowly taking a sip of his whiskey. I stand to the side of the couch, my arms crossed over my chest.
"Loosen up Mary," he says, glancing at me. He holds his glass of whiskey out to me, a gesture I'm not unfamiliar with. My lips twitch before I take the glass and throw the liquid back, plopping down onto the leather couch as what feels like fire crawls down my throat.
He places the laptop in my lap. Good. I need to shoot something. There's a picture of a man with greying hair and a bulbous nose. My eyes stray to the typing beneath the picture. Occupation: journalist. I glance over at Alder who's intently studying the empty glass. I smirk as I turn back to the screen. Tim White, age forty-seven. I don't care what he did to get on Alder's bad side; as long as I'm paid, I don't need any more information.
I jot down Mr. White's address and slip the paper into my utility belt before shutting the computer and standing.
"Four grand." I state.
"I'm a regular, can't I get a discount?" Alder smiles at me; all I do is glare. He shrugs his shoulders, pulling a checkbook out of his pocket. He jots down the amount and hands me the bill. "I trust he'll be gone by morning."
I nod.
I hate it when my targets live in condos. There's too much of a risk that goes along with it; people could hear. Luckily, I always carry along a silencer. Holding Requiem in one hand, I push open the door. Yellow light flows into the hall from the kitchen. Jazz music plays and the smell of ham fills my nostrils. I frown. He's expecting someone. Not good either.
Tim White is bustling around the kitchen, humming to the music as he goes about preparing his meal. He hasn't seen me yet. I pick up his phone and glance through the texts. He's expecting a woman named Rose in about forty minutes. I kind of feel bad for what the girl is going to arrive to.
I tread silently into the kitchen. His body is swaying to the music, head buried in the fridge.
I have to shake myself. Hesitation, fear, and disgust ripple through me. My mother's voice echoes in my head. She's calling me her perfect sweetheart. This always happens before I get down to business, but just like every other time, I push the voices out of my head and approach. His body freezes as I push the barrel to the nape of his neck. It feels like the world has suddenly been plunged in molasses as I push down on the trigger.
He falls.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
I watch as crimson slowly pools around his head. Acid rises in my throat. I push it back though. This is my job, my life; the gun is my god, the trigger my savior.
I'm just glad I didn't eat or I'd be hunched over his trash bin.
I walk over to where I set down his phone. I know I shouldn't. I'm being stupid. I suppose I'm high on the kill; not a good high, but a high. My fingers sweep across the keys. I kind of feel bad for Rose, but I suppose it's better than waiting until she's supposed to come. Maybe he'll still be warm.
"You can come over now," the words read. I hit send and take my leave.
A police car rushes past me; siren blaring. I cringe.
It's headed in the direction I just came. I can only guess that Rose has found his body, screamed bloody murder, and grabbed her phone with trembling fingers. I wonder what the cops will think? Will they sigh, shake their heads, and pull doughnuts out of magic hats?
I don't have much respect for the authority in this town. I don't have much respect for authority in general. I'll admit; I think the government's shit. Alder is proof of that. I also think that the cops are nothing but incompetent dumbasses. I have my reasons too. When mother died, that never suspected her killer, despite the fact Arkham had fled, a mad man. And then don't get me start about my hits. I suppose because it's me, it's so obvious. They've never questioned me though, never showed up on my door-step, nothing. Incompetent is kind, to say the least.
I walk about a block further before an ambulance rushes past me in the opposite direction: towards the hospital if I remember correctly. As I watch the blinking lights fade into the darkness, I can't help the morbid smile that crawls across my face.
I'm well aware I'm going to hell. I'm well aware I have no soul. Save your pitchforks, save your torches, I'm not listening. I'm sure my mother's crying up there in heaven, but I can't hear her so I pretend that I don't know.
I know what those I meet think of me. They think I'm a monster. I am. I don't deny it, don't shake my head furiously, shouting obscenities at whoever dares voice that. I know. I know I'm not normal, from my eyes to my guns, I'm not your usual fifteen year old girl. I'm not worried about boys, I'm worried about the cops. I'm not fretting about celebrities, I'm fretting about my ammo supply. I'm not complaining about my parents being too strict, I'm complaining about clients trying to stiff me.
Sometimes I hate thinking.
I hate people. I hate Arkham. I hate whores. I hate my neighbors. I hate a lot of things. I hate thinking because then I have to admit things, confess to my sins.
Occasionally, I wonder what it would be like if things hadn't gone down the way they were. Every once in a while, when a somber mood like this one hits me, I ponder all the wrongs turns I've taken. It gets me nowhere, but the thoughts swirl inside me until I can do nothing but think.
And that's why, now, I'm actually happy about the inhuman growl I hear.